


Story Pieces for Master of Death SI (TBD)

by DragynWyllow



Series: Somewhere Along the Way [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: But Harry's heart Belongs to Hermione, Death is infatuated with Snape, F/M, Ficlet, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Immortal!Harry, Late in the game, M/M, MoD!Harry, My First Fanfic, No character bashing, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Questionable Humor, Really weird BDSM-type relationship with Death, Self-Insert, as far as I can tell, but not really?, warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-22
Updated: 2017-08-22
Packaged: 2018-12-18 19:52:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11881632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragynWyllow/pseuds/DragynWyllow
Summary: A series of scenes, snapshots and scenarios wherein MOD Harry and Death travel the cosmos, and after some cliche heartbreaking moment, both decide to go back in time and Do It All Over. The difference is that, Snape adopts them at the age of 7, and they're Mixed Fraternal Twins as far as the Wizarding Community is concerned. Death appears as a female that goes by the name Beatrix (Bea, for short) and well, her unconventional appearance isn't all that favourably looked upon. That, and even though she's Harry's twin, she's sorted into Slytherin.These ficlets will jump around this time line, because I wanted to experiment on writing shorter stories and see where that leads me. Go on, click!





	1. No Wonder

**Author's Note:**

> There was a whoooole backstory to these ideas, but they weren't digitally written down and lost to the annals of dust in my house. So I'll pick up halfway through, see if that's enough to entice you guys to enquire about the scenes and times before where these ficlets start and I'll even take suggestions. If you end up wanting a whole story, don't hesitate to ask. Though, I must warn you, I tend to write epic-length sagas, as a result of 30 years of Japanese anime, 20 years of Harry Potter, and a great love of reading, writing and fantasy. 
> 
> These pieces are all related, though they may not necessarily be in chronological order. They generally should be, as I tend to think linearly and write whole stories, not ficlets. Some of the pieces might not make much sense (as aforementioned, there was plenty more story before these!), but I just want you guys to enjoy and experience my writing, as before today, I've never really shared my more mature writing publicly. I'll post the first four pieces that I've written digitally and let you decide whether I should continue in that thread or if you would appreciate more cohesive writing. Constructive criticism is certainly welcome, and I'll do my best to accept such. Please, enjoy! 
> 
> Disclaimer: All recognizable characters, scenarios and places belonging to the HPUniverse are the property of JKR and affiliated shareholders. No profit in anyway is being made from this. Unless you count pleasure. The pleasure is definitely all mine.

**Chapter One: No Wonder**

 

_ During Harry’s fifth year (the second time around), Bea reveals that _ she _ is Death. _

 

Bea lifted her head, groaning. Harry stared at her, momentarily horror-stricken.

“Bea… Bea are you okay? Don’t move-” He started to kneel. Voldemort looked on, a sinister smirk twisting his features more. Bea shook her head slowly, cutting Harry off and keeping him at bay.

“You know… I can’t die.” She grunted, getting to her knees. Plaster and crumbling cement from the fountain fell from her course locks as she stood.

“What…? I mean… I know, but…”

“Don’t you get it?” Bea turned towards Voldemort, but kept her gaze on Harry. He faltered, unsure what she meant. “There’s a reason I call you master.”

“Bea, we’ve… we’ve seen  _ eons _ together, fought together, destroyed…  _ nations _ together…” Harry whispered. “But I’ve never seen you… hurt like this.”

“Yeah, well.” Bea coughed, a hacking sound that brought with it a spittle of blood. “I’m getting lazy, yeah?”

“Besides, I’m supposedly the master of death. _You_ helped me become that. How can you be hurt?”

“I _do_ have to play a hapless mortal, you know." Bea chuckled. "We don't want old Voldy here to get _too_ suspicious." She shrugged bits of dust from her shoulders and shook her thick hair. "Besides... I do not simply serve you because you're the Master of Death. You see, master…” Bea raised a hand towards the Dark Lord. He frowned at their hushed conversation, even as a whirlwind seemed to emanate from her palm. The roaring winds became silent for but a moment, and in this moment, she whispered, “I  _ am _ Death.” 

Harry stood there. In all his power, his  _ eons _ of knowledge and memories, he could not fathom a time where he was this surprised. With a choked laugh he hung his head. Voldemort, still poised to strike, looked beyond Bea to him. His shoulders were shaking and sniffs could be heard, as though he were trying to stifle a cry. Bea knew otherwise. She could  _ feel _ it. He was elated, mortified at his own stupidity- but elated.

“That… that explains so much…” Harry pressed a hand to his still lowered face, dragging it down as if trying to pull the very countenance off his skull. With another hiccough, he burst into laughter, throwing his head back, looking very much like an Heir of the Noble and Ancient House of Black, madness creeping into his voice. “Your power, your knowledge. Your…  _ patience _ to deal with  _ me… _ You could have only been a god… or…” Harry trailed off, his laughter ceasing abruptly, and Voldemort was  _ enraged _ .

How dare that weak-willed wizard laugh in his face? Does he not know that he faces death by his wand? To his chagrin, that insolent  _ chit _ that always seem to accompany the infernal boy— his twin— chuckled, her breath easy and content as she responded in a very quiet voice. 

Did she just call him ‘Master’?

Whatever the girl said, Harry burst into another round of giggles and he nodded, seeming to consent to whatever point she had. 

“I may love her… but, damn... you… You make me feel…  _ alive. _ ” His voice held a tone of irony to it that bewildered Voldemort. Mulling over their hushed conversation in his presence, however incensed him. Here he was, he, who has gone beyond what any wizard has in pursuit of immortality and  _ succeeded _ , ignored as if he were a passerby on a train! He decided to do away with the niceties.

“ _ Avada keda- _ ” He scowled as the statue of the wizard from the Fountain of Magical Brethren jumped to life and intercepted the curse, blocking his view of the children.

“You’ve made a mistake in coming here, Tom,” came the strong, steady voice of the one man he was truly wary of:

Albus Dumbledore. The wizard approached from the Floo Corridor, his wand raised but his eyes were firmly affixed on the children huddling behind the statue. Strange. Before, when they had faced him, they were determined, fearless— daresay carefree. With their headmaster present, it was though they cowering, yellow-bellied twits. What sort of game did they think to play with him…?!

Bea sighed. Dumbledore had nearly seen her destroy Voldemort. Though it would be of no consequence to either of them, she wanted to follow the timeline as closely as feasible. Her master’s elation at her revelation had her giddy and nearly drunk with the widened connection. He had never known or suspected what she truly was. And though he fully trusted her, this new understanding seemed to swell the very thread between them— the thread that shared life, love, magic, trust. In this heightened stated, she could feel every bit of him, his love for Hermione, his very essence that made him her master. His every whim could practically be tasted. If she hadn’t gotten to know the boy- the  _ man _ behind the Master of Death, she would act on his every impulse. But she knew what he immediately felt wasn’t what he immediately acted on; otherwise the wizarding world would be nothing more than a sea of blood at his feet. Every soul a delicious smorgasbord that she would have engorged herself on. She appreciated the tension. 

There have been many times when Harry would find himself empathetic towards the beings of a particular universe or eon, and would ignore Death’s very nature: to consume. She was by no means starving; but she relished in plague and illness, flourished in war. When her master got it into his head that he had the very near powers of a god, he would go down, help the impudent mortals, give them paradise…

And suddenly realise that Death is a very necessary part of an intricate cycle. And Death, who had never been chained before in her existence, would quite literally chomp at the bit. Her master, who had spurts of sadism, the little bastard, would finally take notice, and force her admit that yes, she wanted to destroy; yes she wanted to consume, meanwhile taking joy from the growing frenzy in her eyes, the pooling drool on her tongue. Thus, in a startling yet pleasing turn, her master would turn his back on the worlds he saved, the paradises he created, and unleash upon those errant mortals his companion, his knight.

And Death would grow.

When she would lie, content, on the bed of the voids between the galaxies, full but never satiated, he would ask with a smirk if she enjoyed herself. With a purr and lazy grin, she would look at him before whispering ‘Only if you did, Master.’ Immediately with which Harry would concur. Bea had wondered for millennia if Harry had only acquiesced simply because he would feel bad if his guilt would keep Death from enjoying— well,  _ death—  _ and in his guilt unleash her upon people he spent a long time shaping and saving and loving. Now, however…

Now, she knew. He was enraptured.

And wasn’t  _ that _ tantalizing!

With Dumbledore’s attention fully on Voldemort, Bea stood, wrapping her arms around Harry. She stared beyond Dumbledore’s shoulder— difficult, given the man’s exceptional height, waiting for Voldemort’s furious gaze to find hers. The moment red met with brown, she grinned. Time ground to a halt. She let her grin widen, and Voldemort’s eyes followed. Bea continued to say nothing, her Glasgow grin being the last thing Voldemort saw of her until time flowed and she vanished, and he had to leap back many metres to avoid a bright plume of golden light from Dumbledore’s wand.


	2. Please?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Bea (Death) bugs her brother (Life) to bring Barty Crouch, Jr. back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At first I wanted Death to be the only major Celestial being but then I figured, instead of the cozy office we tend to land in in most other fanfics, or even King's Cross, I decided it would be nice to see where Death came from and see that where her base of operations tends to be. There we can meet her family and it simply gives me an excuse for more Harry / Death interaction without the limitation of appearing mortal.
> 
> Disclaimer: All recognizable characters, scenarios and places belonging to the HPUniverse are the property of JKR and affiliated shareholders. No profit in anyway is being made from this. Unless you count pleasure. The pleasure is definitely all mine.

**Chapter 2: Please?**

 

She held out the quivering, greyish soul to her twin, her enemy, her partner in crime.

“...Perhaps?”

Her partner sighed and shook his head.

“You know… For you to even want to undo this… he must be important.”

“Not really. But I can’t have who I want, and this is the next best thing. I think I can make plans for this one.”

“But… not before having fun with him, I presume? I refuse.” Her twin frowned in disgust. She nearly dropped the soul in shock.

“But… But…” She stuttered as he turned away from her and began walking back to his realm. He paused, a small flicker of a smirk tugging at his lips. He could feel the heaviness in the air, the stale energy being compressed. “... _Please_ ?” Her whisper was so quiet, so earnest and true and full of darkness, darkness of her very being, that her twin nearly succumbed to it. Instead, his weak knees did not betray him and allowed him to turn around. He had never seen Death this pathetic. At her lowest, she was craven and prone to ending things before they had a chance to _be_. But this…

Life had never seen Death _plead_ before. Even when he spied on her with her _Master_. The things he made her do for his own entertainment. It was sick. He couldn’t judge. Not only because he was not Justice, his younger cousin, but simply because for all the strange interaction between that boy and his sister, his soul remained pure. He did it because she enjoyed it. He did not wish to create war, but he would end civilizations for and with her. Her bliss was his enjoyment. Even though he was her master, it was though he existed to serve _her_. Life’s job was never so hectic and yet… steady. His little projects would be allowed to flourish, and Death would swoop in, devour and send his projects to their cousin who would judge them, and either send them on or send them back to Life who would debate with Death on the merits of reincarnation. Before her master, his sister would brood, separate from him, separate from family, actively ending civilizations before they had any real chance. Simply because she could.

With this _Master_ , Life, who was not immune to emotional swings like his sister, saw an abrupt change in her. Firstly, she stopped needing to remind him that _she_ was actually a _he_ and that a female body was _hell_. She would take her immortal form just to sit in on ‘family meetings’ so that the Queen of Darkness and the Father would stop nitpicking. But she often took whatever shape she pleased.

Death, after all, is known by many names and many forms.

It was also her way of getting out of status reports. Now, however, she was almost as boring as Justice with her reports. Saying what needed to be said, giving her acknowledgements and receiving them, and leaving as quickly as possible to be with her master. Mother and Father wanted to be angry, angry that some mortal managed to cage their daughter, but… the Celestial Cogs have never moved so smoothly. It was almost as if letting Death have her way made everything work out. Let it be said that this was not in any way a marriage. They knew their daughter did not love that boy. She loved another, and only in one lifetime did she spend it with that mortal, refusing to “live” through that torment again. Now… now however.

Their brash, gluttonous daughter became quiet, reserved, cunning. She had plans to rival the gods. She used, she rewarded, she destroyed. She twisted, she consumed, and she played. Throughout her chessboard, her family simply observed and lauded her. Her twin, Life, felt more love for her than he ever had. So when she approached him with this poor damaged soul, he almost immediately gave in.

However, he couldn’t, on principle. He just wanted to make her squirm.

This was new. He never could recall that word falling from her lips that wasn’t a sarcastic bid for mercy from stupidity or mocking in some sort of way. Something really tore at her for her to let her essence cloak everything in the hall. She was desperate. And that piqued his interest.

“You know if I give him back, he will remember the In-Between, simply because he wasn’t gone long enough to forget his life, right?”

Bea nodded.

“You do know this is a thousand percent chance of insanity, right?”

Bea nodded.

“And you do realize because of his tainted state, he has no chance in the Upper Realm?”

Bea paused. Then nodded. Normally— well _before_ — she never cared what happened to a soul, as long as she could devour it. These last few eons, however, she in her ecstatic reaping, would make a show of devouring souls, enjoying the taste, meanwhile, soothing and cajoling them, making sure they understood what was to befall them. Life often wondered if Justice allowed Death to make Judgements on her behalf, if it meant not having to deal with the Death God. His twin took on a whole new level of… Disturbia. A creepiness that lingered after her presence vanished. Having tasted just a morsel of her master’s previously incarnated soul started this whole chain of events.

He didn’t know whether to kill the boy or make him a God.

She seemed to unknowingly caress the quivering soul in her hands, said soul darkening slightly and stilling gradually. Even as she planned to use the poor mortal to the point of his Eternal Demise, she comforted it. And the soul accepted! While Life was never certain, Death was an inevitability, and the souls who accepted it were at peace when they arrived at the In-Between, stronger for it, and sometimes were rewarded a cleansing, and a chance in the Upper Realm. They were not always rewarded with this, but their bright lights took much longer to diminish in the Lower Realm. Such that the Queen of Darkness would take pity and draw them up and offer them to her husband, The Father. If he accepted their lights he would make them stars in the night sky all over the multiple universes, allowing their lights to nourish other lives around them. There they were allowed to perish in all of their supernovae glory, lending their essence to Life, who would blend them into new souls, giving them another chance at life without the benefit of reincarnation. If The Father did not accept their lights, be they tainted, or hardly bright enough to sustain life elsewhere in the universes, he cast them off for Death to do as she pleased. Death, in her more benevolent eras, would take them again to Justice and they would decide on the souls’ final destination. Oftentimes Life would end up with possession of these orphans and would experiment on them, merging them, tearing them apart, without the knowledge of his family. Other times, Death would devour them with finality and for each orphaned soul, she created baubles in her lair devoted to their hardships.

Life figured this would be the fate of the placid soul twirling about his twin’s fingers. He sighed and waved his hand toward her, motioning for her to bring it close. Almost as if letting a recovering avian fly for the first time, Death tossed the soul to her brother who held his hands aloft. The soul flowed to a stop before his hands, swirling and bobbing, almost in curiosity.

“Ah… Bartemius Crouch Jr. Your deeds were rather, unbecoming…” Life whispered. He shrugged. Far be it from him to judge. “I give you life, Bartemius. In this life you will serve Death to the ends as she deems necessary. This will give you a sort of half-life. You will not die at the hands of a mortal, but you can willingly give your soul back to Death at the time of your choosing. Justice has decided that you will never step foot into the Upper Realm, and that your final destination, barring Death’s favour, will mean Eternal Demise. Do you accept?” Life demanded, keeping his arms aloft. He watched as the soul swirled slowly between his hands, as if contemplating its decision before bobbing fluidly. He couldn’t help but smile. He felt sure the soul had reached out cautiously to Death as though for confirmation.

“Then welcome, Barty. Welcome back to Life.” Life brought the soul close and with gentle, full lips, kissed its surface. It glowed brightly before vanishing. Life barely had time to turn to his monitoring globe to watch his progress when his arms were full of his sister.

“Thank you…” she whispered. “Though… I advise you turn your back when I deal with him. You were always the squeamish type.” Life had never hugged his sister… ever. But this was another first. He wrapped his arms around her cold form. Realized belatedly that as she vanished from the hall, that parts of his essence stuck to her, as though filling in small pockets of voids. Just as pieces of her stuck to him, filling in gaps he never knew he had missing. Squeamish?

Blood and torture never phased him.

So what in the Upper Realm is she talking about?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short one, but I figured this was a way to get some roles and introductions out of the way later on, should we progress that far. I think it's a nice little snippet into Death in the Mid-Realms of my universe.
> 
> Let me know whatcha think!  
> Dragyn


	3. I'm not sure this is a good thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bea welcomes Barty Crouch, Jr. to his new role as her torture toy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we see a portion of the Darkness that Death may or may not regularly indulge in. There was only one reason she decided to bring Barty back from the dead, and it was entirely selfish. But she's not exactly a neutral God(dess), is she? 
> 
>  
> 
> Disclaimer: All recognizable characters, scenarios and places belonging to the HPUniverse are the property of JKR and affiliated shareholders. No profit in anyway is being made from this. Unless you count pleasure. The pleasure is definitely all mine.

**Chapter 3: I Don't Think This Is a Good Thing**

 

Barty opened his eyes with a gasp.

Did a man just try to kiss him?!

“Hello… Barty, dear,” a cloying feminine voice greeted. It was then Barty realized he was tightly bound to a chair— with no ropes or chains or anything visible. He figured a good  _ immobulus _ and sticking charm.

“Er…” His tongue flicked out to wet his lips. He couldn’t hide his nervousness. If he envisioned himself waking up to a woman…

It wasn’t quite like this.

As if sensing his thoughts the woman chuckled.

“Something like that. Did you rest well?”

“R-rest? I was Kissed! And then some bloke  _ actually _ kissed me!” He wasn’t angry, just… surprised? He was in a darkened room. Though he couldn’t actually sense a floor, despite sitting in what he felt was a chair, the woman’s chilling laugh seemed to float away, as though the room was endless space.

“You’re sorta right. This is my personal space, somewhere to keep you until you’re useful.”

“Useful? I’m dead, right?” Barty knew it was useless but he began to pull at his invisible restraints. He then realised there were no  _ immobulus _ charms on his person, but he was still unable to move beyond his bound position, his arms clamped down to his sides, his arse firmly planted on what had to have been chair.

“Nope,” came the cheery response. Barty had a vision of a Bellatrix look-alike. “I brought you back. I  _ told _ them not to Kiss you.” The woman said exasperatedly. “I had plans for you and they were put on hold for a whole year…” Footsteps could be heard on the non-existent floor as the woman seemed to pace behind him. “But!” The footsteps paused and Barty could suddenly taste fear in the back of his throat like bile. “I have you now… and, well…” Barty blinked, and without warning that  _ girl _ , the Potter Twin, stood before him. “I plan to have fun with you.” The smile on her face did not match the voice that dripped from her lips.

“P- Potter!” Barty nearly swallowed his tongue. “Where- where are we?”

“As I’ve said, Barty, love. My personal space.” Bea leaned forward to tap his nose lightly. He gulped visibly and audibly. She merely grinned. Her sixteen-year-old body looked incredibly small, malnourished, like her brother’s. There was no way she had the power to restrain him and hold him prisoner. He was a full-fledged wizard. So she had to have help. 

“Who… who else is here?” He stammered. It couldn’t be the Dark Lord. He  _ ordered _ his death, thought to be betrayed by his most loyal! But the light wizards, they wouldn’t allow this… this  _ child _ to lead an interrogation of this nature, right?

“Else? No one. My…  _ personal _ space, Barty, dear, keep up.” She then muttered something about her brother not putting all the pieces back. Did her  _ brother _ help her capture and imprison him? “No, no. You see… I’m not _quite_ Harry’s sister. I follow him to the ends of the earth and of time, and he accompanies me as the Master of the End of All Things.” Bea lectured, her body seeming to twist and distort before his very eyes.

“Master of the End of All Things…” Barty repeated, his tongue flicks growing more agitated. Bea, her form still distorting, cooed.

“Oh, don’t make me jealous of that tongue, Barty.” Abruptly he realized how much he tended to lick his lips. But his lips and his throat went dry as Bea’s form doubled over and collapsed, dispersing in a cloud of black mist. Slowly, another form rose from that same mist, a dark skinned form, much like Bea’s, but skeletal and  _ tall _ . Her eyes bled from brown to black, the whites of her eyes vanishing like milk down a watery drain. Her normally coarse hair lengthened, and he was suddenly reminded of Isis of the Egyptian Gods. Though her hair wasn’t sleek and straight like the Greeks often portrayed her, her massive hair waved and fluctuated as though she were floating in the watery depths of the Black Lake. Her dark skin rippled with light and shadows and magic, as though above them was the surface of the lake, and the sunlight struggled to pierce through. Occasionally, the mist would part and reveal she had no need for clothes; for clothes were for beings with shame. Every inch of her exuded this mist and soon her form was covered in it again in a slow cycle. A sinister wave of darkness washed over Barty and he couldn’t help but moan. 

It was from terror, certainly not pleasure. He was positive, anyway. 

It was like the Dark Lord’s, but purer in its entirety. There was no hate, no misplaced greed, no sense of needing to lord over all in her presence. She just… existed. There was a finality to that power, a quiet assurance that in the End… everything will be…

Everything.

Barty’s eyes widened of their own accord, trying to soak it all in. She was familiar from a time gone by. Not when he was alive… But surely not…

“...Death?” He croaked, a tiny bit of spittle dribbling down his chin, his mouth slack in awe. Bea’s lips simply quirked upward, and she said nothing, only reaching forward to wipe away the saliva gently with a thumb. Barty's body stopped struggling against his restraints, whatever they were. There were no chairs, no floors, no sticking charms. Just the agonizing pressure of darkness all around him, against his eyes, his ears, his throat.

“You are mine.” Her voice echoed— no  _ crashed _ — through his skull. And he believed each word. She was his reason for existing, literally. He would live for her, die for her, destroy for her, exist for her. He remembered the promise extracted from him. It seemed so long ago, not just minutes. “And you will suffer… until you like it.” 

“Y- yes… of course, Master…” Even as the words left his mouth, Barty was terrified. What did she mean ‘suffer’? The last he saw of Bea was her lips forming a grin that nearly split her face in half.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super short. Here's my brief foray into horror as a writer. I absolutely adore horror, not necessarily the *thrillers* or *gore* that people seem to confuse with it. This could also go into pyschological thriller, but leaning more towards horror than anything else. In the future I would like to write a separate horror fic in the HP Universe, or maybe even my own, but tell me if you think this is a good start!


	4. Meet Charon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charon has a strange infatuation with Harry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a spontaneous addition to the Celestial beings that I took a fancy to. Think of Charon as the administrative assistant to Death. While she can be anywhere she wants to be, at once, Charon makes it a little easier by being the Ferryman. Normally he'd take his silver or bronze coins for payment (where in the world does he put them??) but for Harry, he has... other, unusual requests.  
> He sees Harry as a diminutive God, noted by the fact that contemporary Greek regards Charon as Haros, which can be translated as Harry... so you can see his enthusiasm, somewhat.
> 
>  
> 
> Disclaimer: All recognizable characters, scenarios and places belonging to the HPUniverse are the property of JKR and affiliated shareholders. No profit in anyway is being made from this. Unless you count pleasure. The pleasure is definitely all mine.

**Chapter 4: Meet Charon**

 

 

“It’s not like you can  _ really _ have Snape right now,” Harry rolled his eyes. Bea had come from her  _ Personal Space _ , and taking out every frustration she had on that poor unfortunate soul named Bartemius Crouch Jr. Though, Harry needn’t have known that. He spotted her emerging from the Slytherin dungeons, her eyes finally returning to something a mortal could stand to look at, and assumed she had simply been out on duty. The first thing out of her mouth was,

“I don’t want to go to Potions today.” He huffed and turned, leading the way to the Great Hall for breakfast.

“Bea, you’re going to have to face him at some point. After that incident, he thinks his best potions student- slash- daughter has been sick and living in the infirmary. Madame Pompfrey keeps asking if I’ve seen you self-harming!” He frowned when he realized she stopped following him. 

“I… really…?” Her skin tinged pink as she blushed.

“It’s not like you can  _ really _ have Snape right now,” Harry rolled his eyes.

“It’s easy for you to forget the longing you experienced, Master. But I have never denied you her love for as many Eons as it will take to satisfy you. I simply want this one thing.” Bea’s eyes darkened as she allowed her eyes to wander back toward the way they had just come, back towards the dungeons and Snape’s private quarters. Harry’s impatience vanished as he realized how much this absence was getting to his eternal companion. What could he do? He couldn’t convince the man to be in lust with a girl he believed he raised. Why hadn't she just come with him to live with Sirius? This way Severus wouldn't be encumbered by paternal concern. Simply statutory rape. 

With a snort that showed she felt and interpreted his concerned thoughts, she shook her head. “I’ve certainly had no intention of approaching him in this body.” She drew herself up imperially—  all of her 170cm— and deflated. “But that's what I did, wasn't it?” 

Harry could do nothing more than shrug his shoulders sympathetically, shifting his bag so it wouldn't swing loose. He had never seen Bea— Death— so morose. Sure, many lifetimes and eons ago when she had first lost her love, and it not-so-ironically just happened to be the same man she was pining over now. He had the first inkling of some clumsy consolation speech on his tongue when her shoulders tensed. Spending ten years as a mortal had his eyes darting about the corridor first before he recognized the inhuman glow in her sclera. Something called for her. For Death. 

“Is it… is it time for a Meeting already?” He hesitated. She promised she would drag him to one of her family meetings one day, despite his many protests that a mere man like him doesn't belong in the realm of the immortals and gods. She would then get this scary grin that reminded him that he  _ was _ immortal and practically _was_  a god. Just because he didn't get to swing the scythe didn't mean he wasn't involved in the inner workings of the Celestial Cogs. In fact, her progenitors were more than interested in meeting him.

And if that wasn't enough to terrify a being who couldn't die, Harry didn't know what would be.

“No…” Bea’s voice was thin, far away, wondering. Though she snapped back to the present with a vicious grin. “However, master, there should be one soon.”

Harry felt himself pale. “So what is it?” His voice didn't crack. Bea let her attention drift South of Hogwarts, South of Glasgow, South of Carlisle, nearly to Leeds— there. It was him!

“Someone thinks they want to summon me.” There was an unholy gleam to her blackening eyes as her body seemed to jerk again. Harry looked around, conscious that other students maybe ambling down the corridor towards the Great Hall for breakfast. It was a Friday, nearly four Fridays before exams, and most students would be scrambling after trying to get last-minute homework done before a hasty breakfast. The stone hallway was clear, void, empty, except and maybe because of the miasma that seemed to leak from his companion’s very being.

“Careful, your Death is showing,” he muttered, fondly. He was beyond curious: no one had successfully summoned Death for hundreds of years. Who had succeeded? Bea emitted a truly human girlish giggle; a wanton teenager who didn't care if she was caught snogging her boyfriend behind the courtyard. 

“Sorry, sorry.” She turned to him, her amused grin lessened. She contemplated Harry for a moment before turning the rest of her body. “Do you trust me, master?” she asked. Her eyes seem to search Harry's in a way that showed that she was uncertain, somewhat cautious… as if she were hiding something. Harry had never experienced this, and so his curiosity was piqued even further. Right now however his confusion won over. 

“Of… of course. When have I not? What's wrong, Bea?” 

“Nothing, master. I have instigated, you must know, quite the Prank of all Pranks.” Seeing Harry opening his mouth to obviously ask about Fred and George, she continued, respecting him just enough not to hold up her hand to silence him. “No, they're not involved... Though this would be awe-worthy for even them. No, this involves our expedition past the fixed point in time that formed a lot of your decisions many many lives ago. And I think it's time we had a little fun.” Harry felt his imitation heart beat faster in anticipation and he couldn't help but lean forward, drinking in the mischievous smog that would have surrounded a mere mortal in terror so thick it would have literally killed them. He, however, basked in Bea’s pleasure, preened in her solacious-ness of twisted humor. It brought him his own peace and satisfaction as the master of death, to see that the one he held the chain to would still roam without choking herself on said leash. She would never.

Because he would roam with her.

This time, Bea did hold up a hand to stop him.

“You, my dear master, however, will be part of this…  _ ludoriya _ as one of the props.” Harry couldn't contain the roll of his eyes. When Death devolved into other languages, she was surely getting worked up and  _ dramatic _ . 

What does she mean ‘one of the props’?

“Spoilers,” she chirped. Then began shooing him towards the Great Hall. “You will understand soon enough. I don't think I've gotten to raise your hackles in quite some time dear master. Permit me this pleasure?” Before Harry could really interpret what Bea meant, he was nodding along and simply walking to the Gryffindor table. Hermione smiled warmly when she looked up.

“Morning, Harry.” She slid over, creating some space between her and Ron so he could sit between them. Ron appeared to be dozing, a rasher stabbed on the tines of his fork held limply in his hand. This Ron was much more studious over the the years than the old Ron. This Ron had many academic achievements to be proud of. Which meant he often pulled all-nighters with Hermione in an effort to catch up to the likes of Draco Malfoy, and Harry and Bea. 

Which meant he was catching up on some sleep this morning. Harry looked at him fondly. “Morning,” he intoned softly. Normally he would speak just loud enough to startle Ron into belting out answers from some random quiz in his dream that McGonagall had set to them, but seeing the dark bags— okay  _ luggage _ — under his best friends’ eyes he thought he ought to be a smidge more considerate. He brushed an unruly locke of hair from Hermione’s face and she blushed demurely, her eyes darting over to the Slytherin table.

“I see Ron’s recovering from your lectures last night?” Harry grinned, pulling his own toast to his plate and began buttering them lightly. Hermione bumped his shoulder in mock indignation. 

“He doesn't get why you don't have to suffer with him,” she muttered, busily slicing her apples. Ron’s head dipped slowly until his nose nudged his plate and the mound of potatoes and the smell jarred him awake.

“Oh… mornin’ Har’...”  he mumbled, lowering his fork as if to scoop some of the potatoes with the bacon still speared, but soon enough, his eyes drooped and his fork simply sank to the plate with a quiet clink. Harry smiled.

“Morning, mate,” he whispered and turned to Hermione who was looking at their friend with the same pitying grin. “When he develops eidetic memory, he won't get to...  _ enjoy _ your company as often,” Harry took a small bite of his toast, relishing the way Hermione pinked out the corner of his eye. She settled for rolling her eyes and took the smallest bite of her apple slice possible that would allow her to continue speaking.

“He's really coming around. After the Ministry fiasco… It's like he went from genius chess player to army general. He told me one night after you'd gone up to bed before him… That he was jealous… Not of us!” she whispered hastily, seeing the chagrin building in his face. “But jealous of the fact that you disciplined yourself to study every night when he let himself be distracted too easily when we first started Hogwarts…” Her eyes quickly scanned the Slytherin table again and she frowned slightly, but she turned back to Harry with a tired smile. “He saw the competition between Bea and Malfoy, and then you and Bea, and well, he wanted in on it, especially when he had heard that Zabini, of all people, wanted to best you and Bea.”

“Zabini?” Harry mouthed, truly surprised. He had hardly interacted with or even noticed the dark skinned boy that seemed to be in Malfoy’s background consistently, even in the old timeline. Hermione nodded and huffed a little, feigning hurt.

“I don't think he even sees me as competition.”

“I think he doesn't think he can shoot  _ that  _ high,” Harry turned to look at his best friend again, feeling Hermione lean close so she could mimic him. The poor teen had begun reciting potions ingredients, tough, mouthy plant names interspersed with not-so-scientific names for their resident potions master. Harry smiled and watched as Ron began stirring his mashed potatoes widdershins, dragging bits of bacon and egg with it onto the table. He reached to stop him when the woosh of feathers announcing the post caught his ears. A raven, large enough to make the owls around it wary landed heavily on his shoulder instead of the table, glaring at him with one large beetle black eye. It was Bea’s messenger, Charon, who liked to deliver messages, as well as souls, directly to Harry, ostensibly to startle the kids around him. Sure enough, sleepy Gryffindors were wide awake and edging away from the severe looking eyes. Seamus swore as he came down to join them, nearly knocking over Dean and Neville in his hesitation to sit with one leg mid-swing over the bench. Neville, brave, terrified Neville meekly waved at the large bird, his reasoning being that he felt that the raven was far too human like in it's mannerisms to not acknowledge him when he came swooping in during breakfast. Charon eyed him first with the right eye, then briskly turned to glare with his left. He let out an ugly croak, startling Ron awake and launched himself down the table. Neville shrieked and ducked beneath his seat, jumping as a bundle of wide-bladed grass landed on his head and fell into his eggs. Charon then swooped around to return to Harry's left shoulder. Always his left. 

“Whatcha get today, Neville?” Pavarti asked from further down, eying Charon warily. Neville, realizing talons haven't tried to sink into his face, popped up and regained his seat, studying the bundle of green closely.

“Dried Devil’s Snare clippings!” he squeaked. His ‘O’ stretched into a wide grin. “Still with the pods! Thanks, Charon!”

The bird tilted his head and chirped. He then soared over to Parvati who flinched horribly but didn't move from her seat and landed on her outstretched arm. 

“Hey there, Charon!” she smiled brightly. Charon leaned close and clicked his beak, slowly rubbing his crest against her cheek. Harry had a feeling Charon liked her for her resemblance to a certain goddess he fancied many epochs ago. Either way, Charon always made sure to stop by and gift her with shiny things any morning that he'd decide to arrive. Slowly, carefully, Charon lifted a foot and dropped a small trinket into her hand. She laughed.

“This had better not be one of Padma’s again! She'll murder me!” Nevertheless, she pocketed the glittery object and Charon let out several squawk-like laughs. Sure enough a worried shrill voice sounded from the Ravenclaw table.

Guiltily, the Gryffindors hunched their backs and pretended to be interested in their breakfast. When Padma stopped glaring and resumed her frantic patdown of her uniform, Harry lifted his head to search the Slytherin table. Bea was nowhere amongst them, and Malfoy looked put out missing his verbal sparring partner.

“Where's Bea? Usually she's trying wring Charon's neck for causing trouble.” Hermione whispered, beckoning said raven over to her with a wave of a particularly juicy sausage. Charon landed on her left shoulder and opened his beak slightly. Then snapped it shut. Surely she wasn't going to feed it to him like  _ that _ ?

As if reading his thoughts Hermione let out a put-upon sigh but grinned. “Fine, fine… Spoiled brat,” she muttered, cutting the link into thin slices she could rest on her finger so Charon could pull them off at his leisure.

“I don't know… I was just with her in the hall…”

“Maybe she forgot something in the common room.” Ron’s voice was fully alert and he seemed to have cleared his plate without anyone noticing. He now sat with a goblet of pumpkin juice, looking as if it held all the answers to all his exams.

Harry shrugged. He doubted Bea forgot much of  _ anything _ , however much she seemed to play the average forgetful mortal pretty well.

Not that his friends needed to know.

Harry turned to look at the spoilt ferryman cozying up to his girlfriend as she stole links from Harry's plate and  _ cooed _ at the bird. “I'll have you know, that that's _ my _ girlfriend hand feeding you, Charon,” Harry said with as much pomposity as he could muster. Hermione's face twisted with the effort not to squeal with laughter as Charon turned a jewel eye to him, as if to say,

_ “I know,” _

And turned to snag another precisely chopped sliver of sausage from Hermione's waiting finger.

“You're a spoiled little s-”

“Harry!” Hermione gasped.

“-something!” Harry amended quickly  and realized that he forgot he was supposed to be sixteen right now. Hermione wiped her hands on a doily as the large raven gulped down his last piece of sausage and leaned forward, eyeing her hands for more food.

“Nope, you sneaky thing. You'll just have to feed yourself for the rest of the day.” she scolded lightly. Charon lowered his head, and in that jerky, stilted manner familiar to most birds, began a sideways shimmy to Harry’s shoulder. Those nearest watched as Charon conducted his walk of shame, even as Harry tilted his head forward to allow him to shuffle across his back to his left shoulder. 

“You know,” Harry said holding up his fork, showing several thinly sliced pieces of pork. Charon appeared to give a pleasant squawk of surprise. “ If you've put holes in my uniform, I'll tell your mother you've been pigging out in the Hall again.” Harry didn't move his fork, but Charon paused mid-lunge for it, closed his beak shut and tilted an eye towards his human perch. 

“See?” Neville gasped. “Way too human!”

As if truly considering it, Charon looked back at the nape of Harry's shirt and shook his crest briskly. Harry could feel the holes and claw marks healing themselves against his skin, even as Hermione reached up to feel with her own fingers.

“Stop picking on Charon, he's not done a thing to you!” Hermione defended the bird who preened and snagged a bit of sausage from Harry's fork. Harry rolled his eyes.

“You're not the one who has to get up three in the morning because a certain bird wants to snuggle in your bed instead of the owlry.” he defended. At this, the girls cooed and awed while the boys, especially his dormmates, commiserated silently for him. He sighed. He kept thinking about that first morning in his third year when Charon decided he would visit Harry _personally_  and Ron _still_ won't let him forget it. “Charon did you have anything for me today or are you just here to freeload?” 

Charon, with a piece of sausage dangling from its thick bill, turned to Harry with a tilted look as if to say, “Of course not!” and sidled over to his face. Harry, remembering a particular morning and a fat wriggling worm, turned away immediately. However Charon’s size permitted him to lean forward and press the morsel against his cheek persistently and his House mates burst into laughter. With a deep flush Harry scrambled from the table, the raven digging his claws to maintain purchase and fled the hall amidst awws and shrieks of “Let him feed his chick!”

In the privacy of a deep alcove shrouded in magic that he and Hermione liked to visit, Harry let his posture relax. “Well? Are you done trying to embarrass me this morning?” He asked irritably to the raven. The avian considered him for a silent long minute, the piece of sausage still dangling curiously from its beak. With a silent wave of miasmic energy he flapped from his shoulder and  _ grew _ . A moment later a tall, skeletal man shrouded in voluminous cloaks stood before him and pressed him backwards against the wall, a slice of sausage in his fingers as he pressed it insistently against his lips.

“Of course not, Harry. You're my little…  _ chick _ ,” he chuckled. Harry refused to respond, lest the ferryman shoved the cold piece in his mouth. “Come on, my little master, or I won't tell you where Death has gone~!” Charon teased, rubbing the greasy morsel across his lips and Harry nearly gagged. He glared up at the “man” but he hardly flinched. After an intense staring contest Harry rolled his eyes and opened his mouth just enough to let Charon pop the sausage in.

“See? So much better than grub that consumes the flesh of the dead!” He cooed, letting his fingers linger on Harry's lips just a moment longer than was acceptable. “I've always wanted to feed you by my own hands, you look so adorable when you first wake up!” He eyed Harry until he swallowed the meat, and then finally stepped back and bowed his head low. Harry scrubbed his mouth with the back of his sleeve, resisting the urge to spit, as well. “My mother has gone to visit the man who has defied her once before. He believes he has all three of your hallows, my little master.”

“Tom…?” Harry frowned. And then laughed quietly. “Oh. Oh! That is rich. He summons the one thing he is terrified of to, what,  _ gloat _ that he might have cheated it?” He shook his head, finding the irony hilarious. “You know what, Charon? You've just earned another morning of cuddle time,” he grinned widely. Within his mass of cloaks, Charon practically vibrated.

“It's my  _ pleasure _ to please you, my little master,” he whispered.

Harry frowned, however, when the man reached deep within said cloaks…. and pulled out a platter of grapes, cheeses and crackers. “Can you indulge me, little master? Mother never delights in these opportunities.” Flushing a deeper red that he was sure to burst the veins in his nose, Harry looked frantically up and down the corridor. No one would see him even if they stood just outside the alcove. Which meant he didn't even have a distraction to allow him to escape. Besides, the Ferryman was blocking his only way out and this was far too innocent a request for him to be a prick and  _ order _ him away. He let his shoulders sag.

“Will... will you leave me alone for the rest of the day?”

“Of course… Until the _morning_ , little master,” the hood bobbed slowly in agreement, eerily reminiscent of the raven he was fond of assuming. Harry was pretty sure he regretted that moment of magnanimity now. With a defeated sigh, he nodded. 

“We have fifteen minutes.”

“But your classes don't start for another half hour-”

“Fifteen minutes. Fourteen…”

“Yes, little master.” With a flourish, Charon tossed his hood back, which dropped and vanished with the rest of his cloak, and instead of the tall, imposing skeletal figure of the ferryman, a young man of average height resembling Bea stood in a perfect imitation of a Gryffindor uniform, grinning earnestly with a platter of fingers for Harry. Harry could feel dread settle on his shoulders as Charon stepped forward enthusiastically.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so this was twice as long as the previous ones, but I had a whole scene in my head and it wouldn't let me go til I wrote it down.  
> Just what was Charon planning with that platter?!  
> As you can see, the students of Gryffindor will have had more experience with Charon than you as the reader but I'd be more than happy to put up a scene just to introduce you. Obviously Harry isn't new to this, but he still doesn't have to like it. As he learned, a mopey, disheartened Charon is a creepy, pathetic Charon, so he tends to give in to whatever strange predilections the Ferryman engages in.   
> Even at his own expense.
> 
> Let me know whatcha think!

**Author's Note:**

> This was a little short, but I actually came up with the whole story just based on this scene that would have taken place during the Hall of Mysteries raid. 
> 
> Have any questions? I'm a world builder, so there might be things you didn't get or understand, but I'm inappropriately happy to talk about the worlds within which I imprison my stories. Please, ask away!


End file.
